Van Dyke Parks & Danny Hutton

Van Dyke Parks on Danny Hutton - an essay
Danny Hutton on Van Dyke Parks - an interview

Van Dyke Parks on Danny Hutton

This essay was originally published on the now defunct Danny Hutton website darlinirish.com.

In 1964, Danny Hutton and I "hung out" at the Troubadour. I'd played there with my brother Carson (as "The Steeltown Two") the year before "folk" went "folk rock." By '64, I was a regular at the keyboard in the bar, jamming with just about everybody who came through (Jim-now-Roger McGuinn, Roger Miller, Cass Elliott, John Kay (of Steppenwolf)). There was a sense of incredible power shifting, discernable at the Ash Grove (where I'd seen Sonny Terry and Browny McGee, Lightin Hopkins, The Weavers, a very young Ry Cooder) to the Troubadour.

The Troubadour was going electric. This was a significant decision in L.A. in '64. Just as it was on the East Coast in Newport's Folk Festival, where Bob Dylan got booed off the stage for "going electric," and suffering Phil Ochs' condemnation for "selling out."

It was Danny who suggested I dare think about a record contract. I'd had no plans in that direction. But, through my admiration for his recording-studio experimentation, he converted me. If a record company contract provided a chance for truly new musical methods, I was all for it.

Danny recorded "Roses and Rainbows" that year. It was the first triple-tracked vocal I'd ever heard. Not since Les Paul and Mary Ford's "Lover," released in 1954, had I been so astonished by what one musician could do in a studio.

I wasn't the only musician to notice what Danny had done. Shortly thereafter, his "triadic" approach with melody was released on the Beatles' "Help!" That came as no surprise to me. Danny's publicist was Derek Taylor, who also publicized the Beatles. Danny was being imitated by a trio, in a style he'd accomplished alone. This method of reinforced trio arranging became the signature for many groups to follow, including Crosby Stills & Nash, the Eagles, a slew of folk-rock-country-crossover and pop groups - and most notably: Three Dog Night.

Hutton was leading the pack, in 1964, as an experimenter in the studio. He brought a new spin into "The California Sound." He was that sound. With his stunning vocal range and power, he had the talent to back it up. There washeart in the work (such as "Roses and Rainbows" and "Dreamin' Isn't Good For You"). Danny's romantic regard for melody leavened his abstract production ideas, and made "production values" a new concept.

Brian Wilson was fascinated with Hutton's innovation. Brian recognized Danny was an equal in the studio, and for a while there were no signs of competition from the usually super-competitive Brian Wilson.

Out of respect for my unbridled talent and enthuiasm, Danny took me under his wing. He was a "local" and knew the ropes. He showed me around town, in a general way. He often drove me through the Hollywood Hills he knew so well. (Born in Buncrana, Ireland, Danny's family migrated to California via Boston, and he grew up in Beachwood Canyon [in Los Angeles], under the Hollywood sign. Danny had "the image thing" early. He was the first fellow in town to adopt a kind of Steinbeck tweed thing, with a lot of North Beach thrown in! He had a moustache (Derek Taylor told Danny that the Beatles were influenced to sport moustaches after seeing a Hutton press photo). He definitely had "the look," but more "beat" than "love generation"! So, that was his look. It really made a lot of sense with the sandals, the pipe, and the Citroen (he called his little black car "Andre". Very film-noir. Girls got excited.)

Soon Danny introduced me to his friend Tim Alvarado, who wanted to underwrite a production effort. With Tim in tow, Danny pitched me to Tom Wilson of MGM [Records]. Tom was African American, over six feet tall, jovial, and truly a man of culture. He'd graduated from Harvard, and now had the vision to see that folk-rock lyrics would carry the new generation's interest in the anti-war and civil-rights movements. Tom was a visionary, and Danny brought me to him.

Newly appointed to MGM as A&R man was young David Anderle. David had gone to USC with Abe Somer, and David suggested that Abe (who'd studied law there) represent me. So I became David's first artist signed at MGM, and was Abe Somer's first client. (Abe has continued in the industry, with great nortoriety) My advance (for a three-single deal) was $500. For this, Abe's bill was $350. I knew somehow that Abe was going places. I decided to keep him. Now I was in business.

[Re his single "Number Nine"]: The Ode To Joy was one of my favorite anthems. I thought it would punctuate my interest in both anti-war and civil-rights issues, with great effect. So we recorded it, with Gene Page arranging (Gene was the hottest arranger of the era, with much to his credit at Motown. His association with Danny led me to think I'd learn much invaluable information. Gene was no disappointment) To fill the vacuum on side B, Danny and I wrote a song together, "Do What You Wanta." We were 21, ready to celebrate.

With this slim evidence, I got up to #16 on the Phoenix charts. Natch, I had to get a group together and go on the road. We opened in Arizona (in this eponymous effort) for the Lovin' Spoonful. My first guitarist was Steve Young, second Steve Stills.

Danny sought my help when he had a dream for Three Dog Night. I've been under the impression that I'd discovered the name, but Danny tells me 'tain't so. He says the name was discovered by June Wilson [Fairchild]. I doubt it. I remember "Mankind" magazine as bathroom-reading matter in Danny's Weepah Way house in Laurel Canyon. There was a picture of an aboriginal Australian at night, curled up in the cold with three dogs. Somehow, I suspect that June Wilson just wasn't "into" anthropology. I may be wrong, but it's true, the group became "Three Dog Night" because I refused to promote a group with the name "Tricycle." I thought it was puerile!

[Upon further reflection]: I'm correct on [naming] Three Dog Night. It was me. No doubt about it. Everyone else was inhaling!

I recognized both Cory Wells (with his forte in white boy blues) and Chuck Negron as perfect instruments to make Danny's vocal arrangements a performance reality. As "idea" men, I felt both Chuck and Cory were "all hat, no cattle." But they were smart enough to know that they could achieve much through teamwork. I posed as the group's producer through this gestational period. It protected them, and gave me a sense of pride. I was never known as a "rocker," and this association made me feel included. Kindness was a two-way street.

Why didn't I produce the first album of "Three Dog Night"? I have no doubt it was an executive decision, fed by a lawyer's conflict of interest. It saddened me for a while. Yet, I realized fully that Danny's long-nurtured vision didn't require much outside creative meddling. He was, to use a classic expression, sui generis ("of his own making"). There were enough cooks in his kitchen, and I moved on to the littler league of session work.

Danny taught me early about a creative process in vocal performance that many benefitted in adopting (including my friend Lowell George, of Little Feat). Danny mused early in our association about his desire to "create character" with each voice..."to create someone who'd never existed, to put someone out there in the ether." (direct quote)

That power to get concrete results from abstract thought shows in his work. It's what makes him a visionary artist, a conjurer. It's why Three Dog Night existed as a mighty industrial and economic force! Listen to the arrangement of Mama Told Me (Not To Come). It's signature Hutton vocalization. No doubt in my mind who framed this piece, or the work of Hoyt Axton either. (Hoyt and I played coffeehouses together since 1962. Once again, it was TDN who gave him his breakthrough as a songwriter.)

I watched Danny govern the arc of his group's popularity from a modest background. He never seemed so interested in taking credit for the ease of operation, but just ensuring that there was an operation. It disappointed me that Danny didn't want to include his own songs in the group repertoire. I grilled him uneasily about it repeatedly. He said he'd rather keep this one extra element of possible contention out of the group process. I thought that was ultimately well-advised. And subtle.

I was a neighbor, living up the street (on Happy Lane) when Danny was weathering the winds of success, fame and fortune. I worried about him during the rigors of his promotional touring. (Many of our colleages didn't survive it.) So, although we led different life-styles, we still kept in touch.

Danny supported the careers of friends and those of talent, without a hint of discomfort. [Case in point: on the night of August 24, 1970, Danny asked me to his pad in Laurel Canyon to assess Reggie Dwight, also known as Elton John. When Three Dog Night had performed at the Revolution in London [in 1969], they were pitched by Reggie to record his songs, armed with his demo from Dick James Music. He was too late for TDN's debut album, but his collaboration "Lady Samantha" was shoe-horned into their next album. Their endorsement established Elton as a commercial reality. Danny also played a pivotal entrepreneurial role in Elton's intro to the L.A. music scene, lobbying Doug Weston for Elton's Troubadour gig [his U.S. debut].]

Hutton's character, as the person who dreamed this legendary trio into existence, put three fine vocalists in the ether, where they belonged. It took vision to make it work, and a man of modesty to pull it together strategically. Still, it's past time to give credit where credit is due. Truth must be served: sic semper tyrannus.

Danny Hutton on Van Dyke Parks

This interview was conducted by Donald Richardson and originally published on his Van Dyke Parks website.

Three Dog Night continues to perform throughout the U.S. It was following one of these appearances in downtown Washington, DC, on September 20th, that this interview was held in a very loud trailer during a summer thunderstorm.

I would like to ask how you met Van Dyke Parks, and what were your first impressions.

I had gone out with some of my friends to one of the Hoot nights at the Troubadour. These were once a week open-mike performances that the club held every Monday. At that time the Troubadour was one of the major hangouts for musicians in the mid-'60s. On any given night you could walk in and hear performances by Roger [nee: James] McGuinn, David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Taj Mahal, Ry Cooder, and scores of other extraordinary talents. Few of them had gotten their big break yet, but it would soon come. The Byrds had pretty much been formed by that time, probably late 1964.

After the performance one of my friends suggested we stop by Van Dyke's place. At that point I had never met him, but I had heard of him, so we piled into a car and drove over to his apartment on Melrose. I can clearly remember the address - it was [address deleted] and 1/2 Melrose Avenue. It came to be known by friends of his as the "fraction bracket."

So I walked in and here was Van Dyke standing there with his shirt off. I think that what initially struck me was that he looked like just a little kid at that time. As he stood in the middle of the room there were a bunch of people sitting around and on the floor, and he was telling them exactly what was going on in the world and in music. He was lecturing and after a few minutes I just sat down with the rest and listened to the lecture. Van Dyke was just that charismatic. And that was my first introduction to Van Dyke. And, of course, I spent a forgotten evening there [laughing]. I must say he has been very kind to me.

I had always assumed you must have met when you two were associated with MGM.

No, no, no! He was a solo artist. I think he was also playing with a folk trio at the Insomniac.

That was probably when he played with his brother in "The Steeltown Two."

OK.. that might have been it. Well that first evening I met Van Dyke I ended up staying the night, getting to know him, and really started to like him. Within a week or two he came over and played a song. He played the melody to the song and I wrote some lyrics for it. It was called "Do What You Wanta."

Do you recall where the song finally appeared?

Oh yea! It was on the back of that [he starts humming "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's 9th] - the Beethoven piece.

You mean "Number Nine?"

Yes! Exactly. So anyway I wrote some lyrics for "Do What You Wanta," if you can believe that. Of all people to ask to write lyrics. Why he asked me to write them I just don't know. Maybe he had a block. At that time, I don't think he had any idea what a great lyricist he really was.

One of the other things I've read about is that he performed and assisted on many recordings in the '60s on which he was not acknowledged. A good example being "Harpers Bizarre."

Well, yes. That's the way things were back then.

Well, I take it he wasn't interested in the credits?

He's very strange about that stuff. He's got his own rules and code of conduct that he lives by. He's a survivor and perhaps to put it best -- Van Dyke is, well, Van Dyke. Unique in every way.

You and Van Dyke have been friends for nearly 35 years. I'm curious about your current friendship.

Well, my oldest son was injured about a week and a half ago and I phoned Van Dyke for some advice -- one of the first persons I contacted. I hadn't talked to him in more than a year. Well, he phoned me back immediately. He's one of those guys that if I didn't see him for two years, I know that all I have to do is pick up the phone and he would be there for me. That is the kind of strong friendship we have. We don't need that daily contact. There is just something special about the care and respect we have for each other. Our relationship is so old and so deep that it doesn't require constant nurturing.

Sure, we have exchanges of Christmas and birthday cards, occasional phone calls, and the likes. You probably have certain friends that you can take for granted because they are such good friends you don't have to be so formal and worry about the friendship. I won't suggest I take Van Dyke for granted, but I know we will be there for each other when needed.

[After a short break in a very loud and hectic trailer, he volunteers the following]

I have to tell you about the night I phoned him up and told him 'you've got to come over to my house. I've met this guy that just flew in from England today and he's going to really be big.' So I took this British piano player, Reginald, out to "The Black Rabbit" restaurant on Melrose for his first dinner in LA and then we went back to my place. Later Van Dyke showed up and I remember he sat down on the floor next to the piano listening to this new artist play some of his original songs. It was, of course, Elton John. He sat and played what would later become some of his early big hits. And as they say, the rest is history.